Retreat, Hell! Part 17

"Yes, sir?"

"Raymond, do you know how to find the CIA's-'head-quarters, ' I suppose is the word-in Seoul?"

Raymond looked slightly uncomfortable.

"Not officially, sir."

"Explain that to me."

"They don't like people to know where they are, sir. But they told Colonel Scott, and he thought I might have a need for the information, and he told me."

"But you know?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to go there, right now, and deliver a message for me to the station chief or his deputy. No one else. If necessary, wait there for one or the other to show up."

"Yes, sir."

When Almond did not hand him a sheet of paper or an envelope, Lieutenant Colonel Raymond took a small notebook and a pencil from his pocket.

"Don't write this down," Almond said. "Memorize it."

"Yes, sir."

" 'Cla.s.sification Top Secret,' " Almond began to dictate. " 'As of 1445 hours this date, by order of the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, two H-19 helicopters, together with their crews, maintenance personnel, and all available supporting equipment, have been transferred to you. The officer-in-charge has been notified, and is awaiting your orders in the hangar across from base operations at Kimpo Airfield. Signature, Almond, Major General, Chief of Staff, Allied Powers.' Got that?"

"Sir, would you give it to me again?" Lieutenant Colonel Raymond asked.

Almond did so.

"Got it, sir."

"When you have delivered the message, report to me at the CP," Almond ordered. "Let's go, Al."

V.

[ONE].

NEAR YOJU, SOUTH KOREA 1705 29 SEPTEMBER 1950.

Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was three quarters of the way toward the top of a hill that had been terraced into rice paddies. He had only a vague idea where he was, except . . .

He knew knew he was somewhere to the east of where he had seen the jeep with the American flag flying from its antenna. he was somewhere to the east of where he had seen the jeep with the American flag flying from its antenna.

He knew knew that he had been moving, and making pretty good time, since daylight-that is, for fifteen hours. that he had been moving, and making pretty good time, since daylight-that is, for fifteen hours.

He knew knew that he had crossed a dirt road three hours before and an hour after that a paved road, which in Korea meant a highway, and he that he had crossed a dirt road three hours before and an hour after that a paved road, which in Korea meant a highway, and he suspected suspected that it was the highway connecting Suwon, to his west, with Wonju, to his east. that it was the highway connecting Suwon, to his west, with Wonju, to his east.

And he knew knew that he had waded and swum across a river, which he was that he had waded and swum across a river, which he was pretty well convinced pretty well convinced was the Han. was the Han.

From where he was sitting, on a dirt footpath, his back resting against the earth-wall dam of a rice paddy, he could see in the valley below him the "highway" bridge of the paved road across the river. The bridge had been mostly blown into the water, but there were signs that vehicles had forded the river near the shattered bridge.

He had no idea whose vehicles, or when they had crossed.

There were the burned remnants of buildings and stone-walled, thatch-roofed huts on both sides of the river by the bridge. There had been no signs of people or of travel on the dirt road, the highway, or the river when he had crossed them, and there had been no signs of anything human and alive in the thirty minutes he had been watching now.

The only sign of human life he had seen all day had been very early that morning, shortly after he had started moving, when he had come across three rice farmers tending a paddy.

They had had with them their lunch-b.a.l.l.s of rice flecked with bits of chicken or pork-and two bottles of water. He had taken half the rice and one of the bottles of water, even though he was almost positive almost positive the water wasn't safe to drink, and had vowed he wasn't going to take a sip unless he absolutely had to. the water wasn't safe to drink, and had vowed he wasn't going to take a sip unless he absolutely had to.

He had paid for the rice and water with a U.S. twenty-dollar bill from a thick wad of currency held together by a gold money clip that had been either a birthday or a Christmas present from either his mother or his father. He couldn't quite remember which.

He wasn't at all sure if the rice farmers knew what the twenty-dollar bill was, and was just about convinced the farmer's pleasure in taking it was because they would have been just as happy to take any colored piece of paper if that meant the large bearded American with the large pistol wasn't going to shoot them to ensure they would not report him to the authorities.

Pick had noticed aerial activity all through the day, from contrails laid almost certainly by Air Force B-29 bombers, to formations of twin-engine aircraft, either Air Force A- 20s or B-26s flying at what was probably eight or ten thousand feet, to low-flying Air Force F-51s and even some Marine and Navy Corsairs flying to his west, right down on the deck, probably on interdiction missions.

None had been close enough for them to see him, and certainly not close enough for him to try to signal them with the mirror, even if he knew how to work that G.o.dd.a.m.n thing, and anyway, the flash of light from the G.o.dd.a.m.n mirror would almost certainly have been lost in the far brighter flashes of light coming from the sun bouncing off the water in the rice paddies.

He had filled both canteens and the bottle he'd bought from the rice farmers with water from what was probably the Han River, and felt marginally marginally safer in drinking some of that now. safer in drinking some of that now.

The decision he had before him now was when to have supper, before or after going to work.

He had not found a conveniently drained rice paddy, which meant that he was going to have to drain one himself. In two months, he had become rather expert in draining rice paddies, so that he would have a muddy surface into which he could stamp out his arrow and the letters PP. PP.

It wasn't as simple a task as one might a.s.sume, not simply a matter of kicking a hole in the dirt dams and letting the water flow out.

There was a h.e.l.l of a lot of water in each rice paddy, he had learned, and if you kicked too large an opening, the water would run out too quickly, taking with it more dirt, so that what had begun as a small trickle of water turned with astonishing speed into a raging torrent.

The torrent would soon overwhelm the capacity of the dirt path between adjacent paddies to carry it away, and flow into the rice paddy below it on the hill, where it would overwhelm that paddy's earth dam, and produce something like a chain reaction.

A line of drained paddies running down a hill was visible for miles, and would attract the kind of attention that would see him captured. He had caused one major chain-reaction draining and two not quite so spectacular-all three of which had seen excited farmers rushing to see what had happened-before he'd given the subject of paddy drainage a great deal of thought and come up with a technique that worked.

The trick was to go to one end of the paddy and sc.r.a.pe a very very shallow trench at the top of the dam. The water would flow until it had fallen to the level of the trench and then stop. Then you moved five feet away and dug another shallow trench at the top of the dam. The water would flow until it had fallen to the level of the trench and then stop. Then you moved five feet away and dug another very very shallow trench, and repeated the process until the paddy was dry. shallow trench, and repeated the process until the paddy was dry.

Major Pickering decided he would work and and eat. He would dig the first eat. He would dig the first very very shallow trench with his boot, eat one of his nine rice b.a.l.l.s as the water drained, then, when it had stopped flowing, dig another very shallow trench, eat a second ball of rice, and so on. shallow trench with his boot, eat one of his nine rice b.a.l.l.s as the water drained, then, when it had stopped flowing, dig another very shallow trench, eat a second ball of rice, and so on.

He pushed himself off the earth dam, walked to the end of the paddy, and sc.r.a.ped the first trench.

It was long after dark before the paddy was drained.

He looked down at the valley and saw some lights, but they were dim and not moving along the highway.

He moved uphill from the drained trench, sat down on the dirt path, popped dessert-the last of the nine rice b.a.l.l.s-into his mouth, and then lay down.

He had a busy day tomorrow. He had to find food again, and move, and then find another suitable rice paddy.

[TWO].

THE HOUSE SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1715 29 SEPTEMBER 1950.

When Colonel Scott, the X Corps G-2, had quietly pa.s.sed on the location of the CIA station to Lieutenant Colonel Raymond, he of course had not simply given him the address. Neither officer spoke, much less read and wrote, Korean. Instead, he had prepared a rather detailed map, and provided a verbal description of how to get there, and of the building itself.

Still, what street signs remained were in Korean, and it took Raymond about two hours to make it to the house from Kimpo. And even when he blew his jeep's horn in front of the ma.s.sive steel gates, he wasn't sure he was in the right place.

A moment later, an enormous Korean in U.S. Army fatigues came through a door in the gate, holding the b.u.t.t of a Thompson submachine gun against his hip.

"Do you speak English?" Raymond asked.

There was no sign, verbal or otherwise, that the Korean had understood him.

"I'm here to see the station chief," Raymond said.

Again there was no response that Raymond could detect.

"I have orders from General Almond," Raymond said.

That triggered a response. The Korean gestured, and the right half of the gate swung inward. The Korean motioned Raymond to drive through it.

Inside, he saw a large stone European-looking house. There was a jeep and a Russian jeep parked to the left of the porte cochere in the center of the building. He remembered seeing a Russian jeep earlier at both the Capitol Building and Kimpo, and wondered if it was the same one. On the roof of the porte cochere an air-cooled .30-caliber machine gun had been set up behind sandbags. It was manned, and trained on the gate and the road from the gate. Raymond wondered if it was manned all the time, or whether his horn-blowing had been the trigger.

He stopped in front of the porte cochere and looked over his shoulder for the enormous Korean. The Korean, who was right behind him, pulled his finger across his throat, a signal to cut the engine, then pointed at the door of the house.

Then the Korean, the Thompson still resting on his hip, beat him to the door and motioned him through it.

Inside was a large marble-floored foyer. Another Korean, much smaller than the one who had been at the gate, sat at the foot of a wide staircase with an automatic carbine on his lap. The large Korean led Raymond to a door off the foyer, rapped on it with his knuckles, and then pushed it open.

Lieutenant Colonel Raymond was interested-perhaps even excited-to see what was in the room behind the door. The only previous contact he had had with the CIA was on paper. He had seen a number of their intelligence a.s.sessments, and he had met a number of CIA bureaucrats, some of whom had lectured at the Command & General Staff College when he had been a student there. But he had never before been in a CIA station and met actual CIA field officers.

He walked into the room.

There was a large dining table. On it sat two silver champagne coolers, each holding a liter bottle of j.a.panese Asahi beer. Two men in clean white T-shirts were sitting at the table, drinking beer, munching on Planters peanuts, and reading Stars and Stripes Stars and Stripes.

They hurriedly rose to their feet.

Those are enlisted men!

"Can I help you, Colonel?" the taller of them asked courteously.

"My name is Raymond," he said. "I have a message for the station chief from General Almond."

The taller of them jerked his thumb at the other one, which was apparently a signal for him to get the station chief.

"It'll be a minute, Colonel," the taller one said. "Can I offer you a beer?"

"I'd kill for a cold beer, thank you," Colonel Raymond blurted.

It was not, he instantly realized, what he would have said if he had considered his reply carefully-or, for that matter, at all. He was on duty as the personal messenger of the Corps commander, for one thing, and for another, field-grade officers do not drink with enlisted men.

But it had been a long day, and the beer looked so good.

The tall man found a gla.s.s- That's a highball gla.s.s, a crystal highball gla.s.s!

Where are they getting all these creature comforts?

-filled it carefully with beer, and handed it to Lieutenant Colonel Raymond.

"There you go, sir."

"Thank you."

Raymond was on his second sip when three other men came into the room. They were also wearing crisp, clean white T-shirts. One was lithe and trim, the second barrel-chested and muscular-Raymond decided he, too, was an enlisted man, probably a senior sergeant-and the third was sort of pudgy and rumpled.

"What can we do for you, Colonel?" the pudgy one asked. He walked to the champagne cooler, poured beer, and handed gla.s.ses to the others.

"I have a message for the station chief from General Almond, " Raymond said. "Is that you, sir?"

"Who are you, Colonel?" the pudgy one asked.

"Lieutenant Colonel Raymond, sir. I'm the a.s.sistant X Corps G-2."

"You work for Colonel Schneider, right?" the pudgy one said.

"No, sir, for Colonel Scott."

The pudgy one nodded at the trim one and confirmed, "That's the name of the X Corps G-2."

"Are you the station chief, sir?" Raymond asked the pudgy one.

The pudgy one pointed at the lithe one, and the lithe one pointed at the pudgy one.

Station Chief William R. Dunston had pointed at Major Kenneth R. McCoy for two reasons. First, he was always reluctant to identify himself to anyone-even an Army G- 2 light bird-as the station chief, and second, he considered Ken McCoy to be de facto de facto the senior CIA officer in South Korea. the senior CIA officer in South Korea.

There was no question in Dunston's mind that if there was an argument between him and McCoy, and General Pickering had to choose between them, McCoy would prevail. He had served under Pickering in the OSS in the Second World War, and they were personal friends as well.

Major McCoy had pointed at Dunston because Dunston was was the station chief, even though both of them knew McCoy was calling the shots. the station chief, even though both of them knew McCoy was calling the shots.

The chunky, muscular enlisted man chuckled when he saw the exchange.

"Mr. Zimmerman, it is not nice to mock your superiors, " the lithe one said, which caused the other two enlisted men to laugh.

"May I presume that one of you is the station chief?" Lieutenant Colonel Raymond said. He realized he was smiling.